Supernatural fan fiction

I hope you enjoy my take on Dean being the bad guy. For those of you who know the show can critique my image of the characters and everyone else can give me advice on my writing.
Please comment!! Every bit of creative criticism helps!

"The Devil Within"

"Come on, Sammy! Olly, olly oxen free!" Dean called out to the seemingly empty, run-down warehouse. Crates scattered at odd angles in no discernable pattern gave his enemy too many places to hide.
He didn't like that.

Dean stepped cautiously around yet another crate, His .45 lifted up at chest height, right hand holding the weapon crossed over the left, which held the flashlight.

Taking a quick step to the side he peered around the crate to his left, "Sammy!? Come on, little brother, let's talk. All this time all you wanted to do was talk, now I'm here, let's fucking talk!" Dean yelled, his voice bouncing back to him in the eerie silence. Hearing a faint ruffling of fabric to his right, he spun with a dancer's grace, aiming both, the gun and flashlight in the direction of the noise, "Saaaammmmy!" Dean sang out, whipping around each crate and checking behind it as he made his way closer to the source of the noise. His black, CAT boots made no noise as he traversed the smooth concrete of the storage warehouse's floor.

"Dean, don't do this." Sam's voice echoed around the dark room, coming from all directions making it hard for Dean to pin point the exact location of its origin.

"Why not, it's so much fun. You're just pissed ‘cause this shows I'm a better hunter than you. No matter what you do, Sammy, I'm gonna find you." Dean's voice held a note of pure confidence that made his own skin tingle; he would hate to be up against himself right now. He chuckled at the thought and continued searching the area.

Coming up to the far wall of the warehouse he checked behind all crates in the immediate vicinity before making his way to the left, using the wall for guidance as he turned off the flash light. He needed to be as invisible as possible; he couldn't let his adversary find him first. Not when this was more than a battle of wills, this was a fight to the death.

"You know you're no better than I am, Dean. We're a team. We work together-" Sam's voice was cut off.

"I work alone! I don't need you anymore, Sam. All you ever did was hold me back. Ever since we were kids! Just this boulder strapped to my damn leg. Having to drag your whining ass all over the place, and then when you hit your teenage years...God, if you knew how bad I wanted to put a bullet in your head back then, you would have ran off a lot sooner. Instead you just sat around waiting to go to college. Now, all you ever do is bitch about how dad never loved you, how you miss your little girlfriend, how you are so scared about the yellow eyed demon's plans for you. Jesus, Sam, I am so sick of hearing it! You just don't understand how badly I wanna end you and be done with it!" His voice rose with each word, practically yelling at the end, he never heard Sam's boots scuff the cold concrete behind him as his little brother slipped behind a crate Dean had already checked.

Spinning away from the crate, Sam made his way to the far wall, ignoring the blood stain painted on the crate, and used the wall to guide him away from his out of control sibling, "Dean, I know this isn't you talking. Man, come on, Dean, just stop this! This is the spirit we are supposed to be salting and burning that is possessing you!" Sam called out, bending low to the ground; he spotted a black object butted up against the wall. Running his fingers over the cold metal, he breathed a sigh of relief, his gun. Losing it earlier when Dean ambushed him left him weaponless and vulnerable.
When Dean called and told Sam to meet him in the warehouse he assumed Dean had found something on his search for the ghost haunting the warehouse they now stood in. The last thing he expected when he walked through those wide doors was for Dean to jump on him...literally.

+=Forty-five Minutes Earlier=+

Sam stepped into the cold, dark warehouse, his breath visible in the small white clouds that floated from his lips and into the air before dissipating. The daylight fading didn't help the temperature any. He couldn't believe Dean really begged for this job. Sam had no problem nosing through ancient places, but Dean...Dean was more of the shoot first, ask questions later kind of person. If a ghost would jump out swinging, Dean would be in pure bliss, but the fact that he now stood in a quiet, cold, dark, musty warehouse that hadn't been used for the better part of a decade told Sam something was up.
Not to mention, the circumstances surrounding the spirits death weren't exactly up his brother's alley either.

Jonathon Blake was found guilty of two counts of murder in the first degree...the catch...he murdered his own baby brother and his brother's wife. Jefferson Blake was only twenty-one when his twenty-seven year old brother killed him and his twenty year old wife. Sam scoured every resource he could find in the short time he and Dean had been in town but couldn't find out what the reason was for the murder or how Jonathon had escaped from jail and ended up here, in the old warehouse.
Dean also chewed him up one side and down the other for finding absolutely no information about where the man was buried.

Taking a few steps into the musty building Sam came to a stop, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, "Dean?" He called out.
His voice bouncing back was the only response.
Feeling a slight unease, he drew his glock from the waist band, eyes scouring every inch of the dark warehouse in front of him.
Taking a few more steps through the entrance he was about to call his brother's name again, knowing something was wrong for his brother not to respond to him, when something solid and heavy slammed into his back, sending him crashing to the floor and the air was projected out of his lungs with no intentions of returning anytime soon.

Closing his eyes, he tried to catch his breath and get his bearings, but whoever attacked him didn't plan on giving him that luxury. Strong, muscled hands grabbed him, roughly, by the shoulder and jerked him over onto his, now extremely sore, back. The only thought going through his mind was, ‘Where is Dean?'
Slitting his eyes open, as his lungs finally decided to cooperate, the sight that was before him made his blood run cold, Dean's eyes, cold, emotionless...blue...glared back at him. Not his brother's usual, charming green.

He realized his older brother must have been hanging from the rafters ten feet above him...waiting for him.

"Figures you would be late. Never were responsible enough to be on time." Dean muttered as he took advantage of Sam's surprise and grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head backwards, into the unforgiving concrete.

Sam struggled against the unmoving hand that was tangled in his hair as the stars flashed, brightly, behind his eyes. For a second he was certain he was going to lose his grip and slip into the dark oblivion, until he felt his brother's fingers slip from his hair, giving him the motivation to push away from the encroaching darkness and take his brother down.
Just thinking that thought made him feel sick.
Pulling Dean's wrist Sam kicked his foot out, connecting with his older brother's stomach. The combined effort threw Dean off balance and onto his knees next to Sam's head. Throwing his weight into the punch, Sam lifted his left hand up and smashed it into the side of his brother's face.

Dean would forgive him for it later.

Rolling in the opposite direction he clambered to his feet, watching his brother from the crouched position a few feet away. He was ready to take his brother for another round if need be, but judging from the groan that slipped from Dean's lips and the shaking of his head, Sam didn't think he would need to do much more.
Boy was he wrong.

Taking a cautious step forward he reached his hand out calmly, "Dean, what's gotten into you man?" Sam asked, watching his brother struggle to get up, making it to his knees before stopping to catch his breath.

"The only thing...that is gonna happen..." Dean muttered as he wiped the blood from his lip where it had connected with the floor when he went down, "...is...I am gonna kick your ass, and enjoy doing it." Dean pulled back and got to his knees, he stood facing his brother.

Sam took a faltering step backward, brow raised in confusion, "Dean, what is wrong with you?"

Dean's eyes grew a bit in surprise, "What's wrong with me? WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?!" He yelled, reaching behind him to pull his .45 and aiming it at his baby brother, "Jesus, Sam, do you know how good it would feel to put you out of your misery, right now? It sure would put me out of mine, having to put up with your shit for another second would be pure torture. Getting rid of you would be a like a permanent fucking vacation!" Dean's lip continued to bleed, but he ignored the thin trickle as it dripped down his chin to give Sam a bright smile, the thought of no more bullshit, no more ‘look out for Sammy' or ‘if you can't save him, you have to kill him'...no more Sammy period!

Smiling maniacally Dean cocked the gun and took aim.

"Any last words?"

"Dean, don't do this, please."

"Begging? That's new; normally it's pouting and bitching, eh, first time for everything."

"So, after all of these years, all the time you put into protecting me, you're going to kill me? A bit redundant, huh?" Sam hoped logic would see through...not likely.

"Better I get the glory than someone else. At least this way I get justice for all of the years I lost as a kid. I couldn't even go out with friends because I was too busy watching my, sorry ass, little brother. Do you have any idea what that is like? No, you don't! All you did was take, take, take! Always knew big brother was going to be there to take the brunt of everything, huh? Always thought I was going to be your shield? Let dad beat the shit out of me when you screwed up and sent him on a drunken rage? Well, not anymore you little shit! I'm done being ‘Protector Dean'. I am through wiping your sniveling ass instead of living my life like I want to! I'm done taking the brunt of the pain so you don't have to!" Dean yelled, his hand shaking with the anger that was coursing through his veins.

"Roosevelt Asylum, Dean. Remember? You are being possessed by a spirit and it is making you do and say these things. Dean, please fight it." Sam begged.

"Why? You didn't, in fact if I remember correctly, you loaded me full of rock salt and would have loaded me with lead from my own damn gun if it had been loaded. This time, little brother...it is."

Pulling the trigger he smiled in satisfaction as the bullet pierced through his baby brother.

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Sam felt the bullet rip through muscle and flesh. His breath was stolen from his lungs for the second time. At this rate Dean would suffocate him before he killed him any other way.
But the whole idea of his brother trying to go all Godfather on his ass scared the hell out of Sam. Sure, like he had said, Roosevelt Asylum was the same can of worms; only difference was that it was Sam pulling the trigger, not Dean. Sam always thought Dean was too strong to be taken over like that. Guess he was proven wrong.

Gripping his shoulder he darted between a few crates behind him. The bullet had pierced clean through his left shoulder, leaving blood draining from his body to drip down his favorite grey hoodie.
Damn it, he would have to buy another one.
He'd make Dean buy it when they got out of this mess.
Quietly leaning his back against one of the large crates he assessed the damage while listening, intently, for his wayward brother's footsteps. His shoulder burned like there was a red hot fire poker stuck in him. The pressure, he knew he had to put on the wound, did little to ease the fire that was rapidly trying to steal his consciousness.
Closing his eyes he took a deep breath and slid from his hiding spot to weave a secret passage through the maze of crates.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+

"Dean, I know this isn't you talking. Man, come on, Dean, just stop this! This is the spirit we are supposed to be salting and burning possessing you!" Sam called out, bending low to the ground; he spotted a black object butted up against the wall. Running his fingers over the cold metal, he breathed a sigh of relief, his gun.
Wrapping his fingers tightly around the handle he spun in a full circle, eyes watching the darkness for any sign of movement. Dean had turned the flashlight off to ensure there was no way of knowing where he was. It was working.
Sam sucked in a breath as fire shot through his shoulder. The simple act of holding the gun caused spots to dance before his eyes, the pain was so intense

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe I finally lost it? That maybe I finally snapped? That after all of this time, putting up with you and dad has finally popped a few bolts loose?" Dean's voice echoed around the room, making it difficult, if not impossible to pin point his location amongst the labyrinth of crates. The darkness from the setting sun didn't help the situation any either.

"I know that's bullshit because my brother wouldn't snap. He's too strong." Sam yelled back, his voice containing more confidence than he actually felt. Nearly tripping over something he righted himself before kneeling down and investigating the cloth object.

A harsh laugh filtered through the shadows, "You really think your brother is the end all be all, huh? News flash kid, he's no better than any other dumb, son-of-a-bitch that pours his heart and soul out to a younger sibling only to have it thrown back in his face. You're no better than any other spoiled rotten, selfish little brother and I think it's time you learned what kind of monster you have turned your brother into with all of your nagging and complaining." Loud crashes shook Sam to the core. The crashes turned into a cacophony of sound that made Sam drop to his knees and cover his ears. What the hell was that thing doing? Reaching down again he grabbed the cloth and examined it. His face lit with pleasure, it was the weapon's duffel!

Pulling himself up, he threw the duffel over his uninjured shoulder, and ran toward the entrance, maybe if he got help he could talk Dean/Jonathon down. Stopping short Sam realized what the loud sound had been; the entrance was blocked by three seven foot tall crates. There was no way he was going to be able to move them, so freedom was not an option.
Spinning back around he looked up to the nearest crate, if he jumped he could get a grip on the top and haul himself up. Unfortunately, with the bullet wound to his shoulder, he doubted he would have the strength to do it.

"Only one way to find out," He whispered to himself. Slipping the gun into his jeans at his back and readjusting the strap on the duffel, he reached up experimentally, wincing at the shocking jolt that ripped through his shoulder and down his back and chest. Damn it, this was gonna hurt!
Reaching up, he jumped, fingers immediately wrapping around the edge of the crate, all of his weight held by his fingertips. The pain in his shoulder was excruciating and he lost his grip. Dropping back to the floor he caught his breath and cleared away the black spots dancing in front of his vision.

"Sam, I can hear you breathing, little buddy. What's say you come on out and we can talk about this, huh? I bet Dean would at least like to see your face one more time before I rip your insides out." Dean's voice sounded far too close for Sam's liking. Doubling his determination he threw his hand up and caught the rim of the crate. Ignoring the pain and black spots he used every ounce of strength and fear to push himself as he climbed up the rusty, metal crate.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, but was really only a few seconds, he threw his legs over the top and rolled onto his back, catching his breath. He ignored the sweat that dripped from his face, chest and arms to try to get a better grasp on his surroundings.

"See, Sam, you younger siblings always do this. You take everything we; older siblings do for granted. You think we will always love you, even though you steal, lie, cheat...kill. We put up with so much from you but it seems like it's never enough. You always want more. More time, more freedom, more giving and never, ever do you give back! You are all lousy, good for nothing little bastards that need to be taught a lesson." Dean's voice slithered up to meet Sam's ears. Sam knew he was in the exact location Sam was, not ten seconds ago.

Slowing his breathing, trying to stay as quiet as he could, Sam knew Dean was standing right beneath the crate he currently lay atop. He held his breath until he knew he could breathe through his nose without giving away his position.

"But, I guess you think this is unjust. You probably think that you have been such a good little brother to Dean. Hate to break it to you kid...actually I enjoy breaking it to you, he hates your guts. He is sick and tired of you. I know, I can read his thoughts. I can access any memory in his tired little mind that I want." Dean's voice faded as he moved away from Sam's crate, making him sound otherworldly.

"I don't believe you!" Sam called out. He heard his brother's footsteps falter at his words.

"Ah, there you are Sam. Thought you had finally bled out on me and I was talking to myself." Dean's voice held an amused tone as he began making his way back to where Sam had perched.

Knowing he needed to move before Dean found him he slithered to the edge of the crate, taking a deep breath, he reached out to the crate opposite his position and began making his way across the tops of crates, away from his possessed sibling.

"Should have let Dean shoot, ass hole, at least he is a better shot." Sam taunted as he made his way across two more crates.

"I'll remember that. Almost seems like a good torture device, make him watch as he kills you. Maybe then he will find peace...like I did." Dean's voice followed slowly behind Sam, trying to find him amongst the crates.

"So, you are Jonathon Blake?" Sam asked, settling down on top of a crate to catch his breath and ease the pain his shoulder.

"In the flesh...well actually in Dean's flesh, but, yes, all the same." Dean's voice drifted up to Sam as his brother made his way passed Sam's crate and continued on through the warehouse.

"So, it's true then, you killed your little brother?" Sam accused.

"Well...how do I put this nicely...I slit his throat in his sleep. Better than he deserved, anyway." Dean grumbled.

"What could your baby brother possibly do that could warrant a death sentence like that?" Sam demanded, becoming immediately defensive for the other man.

"That's none of your damn business, however, this probably is." Sam had no idea what happened, one second he was laying on top of the crate, well hidden from his brother's ghost ridden eyes, the next second he was crumbled in a heap on the floor by Dean's boots. The pain in his side let him know he was laid down none to gently.

Taking a deep breath and letting in out on a sigh, Dean knelt down, "Sammy, Sammy," He shook his head, "You kids always have to make this so hard." Reaching behind his back, Dean, again, drew his .45 and looked at it skeptically for a second before aiming in at Sam once again. His attention was so caught up on the moment that he never saw Sam's fingers sliding, slowly toward the duffel bag by his side.
"Say goodbye, Sammy."

"It's Sam!" Sam yelled as he whipped a bottle of salt from the duffel back, watching as the white crystals arched toward his brother's face. The second the pure white crystals made contact with Dean's skin, Sam saw the blue melt from his brother's eyes as green returned.

Falling over backwards, Dean reached for his face and screamed. The agony behind that scream would haunt Sam for the rest of his life.
Crawling forward Sam drew a salt circle around his brother's convulsing body. Kneeling over his big brother, Sam put a hand against Dean's shoulder to hold him in place while he slowly sprinkled some salt into his open mouth. The cold rush of air that blasted pass Sam caused him to tip backwards and land on his butt. Watching in wonder as the spirit was physically ripped from Dean's body, but the spirit's hands were still inside of Dean's chest, like he was trying to hold on.
Reaching into the duffle again Sam withdrew the sawed off filled with rock salt.
Taking aim Sam smiled a wicked grin as he pulled the trigger, immediately the spirit released his hold on Dean and dissolved into thin air.
Dean ceased his epileptic movements and went perfectly still.

Leaping forward, Sam grabbed his brother's face and turned it to him, "Dean? Dean, answer me, man!" Sam tapped his brother's cheek, but, no response was forthcoming, "Damn it, Dean! Wake up!" Sam looked around him in the dark warehouse, but the spirit had not returned yet, but it was only a matter of time.
Turning back to his brother's pale face he was surprised to see glittering green eyes staring back him, "Didcha get him, Sammy?" Dean croaked; his voice rough like sandpaper on glass.

Sam looked around the room again, "Not really. Dean, he possessed you, I didn't know what to do!" Sam said as he helped his brother sit up.

Dean winced at the ache in his muscles and the start of a headache, "Should have shot me with rock salt."

Thinking it was a remark toward the Roosevelt asylum incident last year Sam opened his mouth to argue but his brother cut him off, "Anytime someone is possessed by a spirit, you shoot them with rock salt. It hurts like a bitch but it makes the spirit release its hold." Dean said, wincing again as he tried to get to his feet. God, that bastard rode him hard, it felt like he ran a marathon after swimming the width of the Mississippi. All of his muscles ached and cramped.

"I didn't know that, thanks for the info." Sam said with a small smile, "So, uh...you're not gonna try to kill me again, huh?" Sam asked.

Dean cocked an eyebrow, "No,"

Sam nodded, "Good, cause that would be awkward."

Catching the joke Dean smirked and dusted his pants off as he surveyed the scene around him, "Jonathon's bones are in one of these crates. The only thing I got was the last three digits, umm...three-seven-nine." Dean muttered as he closed his eyes trying to remember.

"What the hell are they doing in a crate?" Sam asked incredulously.

"One of Jeffy-boy's friends found out that big brother was hiding out here. He came and took care of him." Dean shrugged nonchalantly.

"So, Jefferson's friend came here and murdered Jonathon and then stuffed his remains in one of the packing crates?" Sam asked as he slid the duffel over his uninjured shoulder.

"Yeah, pretty much. I mean all I could tell-" Dean's voice was cut off by a low groan that escaped his little brother's lips as Sam lifted the sawed off with his left hand.

Snatching the gun from Sam, Dean pushed Sam's back up against one of the dusty, metal crates and looked sternly at him, "Let me check this."

Sam's face paled a bit, but he nodded his consent and held back another groan as Dean lifted the hoodie from Sam's body, taking extra care with his left arm.
Looking down at what had his brother seething, he saw the blood that covered his entire left side, from shoulder to hip and down into his jeans. Looking back up at his older brother he caught the look of pure guilt that whispered across his face, "Dean, this isn't your fault. The ghost made you do it."

Dean shook his head but said nothing. Ripping his flannel shirt off Dean used the bowie knife in the duffel to cut the shirt into strips, making a patch and sling from the worn fabric. He knew Sam would need a more suitable sling but for right now it would have to do. Wrapping it carefully around Sam's left arm and tying it in a knot over the right shoulder he caught his baby brother's gaze, "What?"
Sam shook his head and cast his eyes on the ground.

"Sam, what is it?" Dead asked, fear making his pulse kick up a notch.

"Some of the things he said...did...did dad really...hurt you because he was mad at me?" Sam asked, watching his brother through his thick lashes.

Dean's face crumbed slightly before he too looked away, "I let things go where this bastard couldn't seem to. It's not important whether it was true or not, what is important is the fact that you are okay. How's the shoulder?" Dean asked, nodding his head in the direction of the sling.

Sam watched his brother for a moment longer before giving in to the subject change and nodding his head, "It's good, but we need to shag ass if we are going to find that body before the sun light fades." Sam reached for the weapons duffel but his hand was slapped away just before getting a grip on the straps. Glaring up at his older brother as Dean slung the duffel over his shoulder, he shook his head and took in his surroundings, "Well, he has rearranged the entire room, finding that case is going to be like..."

"Finding a girl with real boobs these days," Dean shook his head in grief at the thought before taking a step out of the salt circle as he pulled a flashlight from the duffel at his side.

Sam smirked at his brother's obvious remorse for modern women's need to be the perfect Barbie doll. He lifted his own flashlight, following closely behind Dean, "I guess we just do a thorough check of all crates and watch each other's backs."

"Now, that's why you went to Stanford; that big ole' brain of yours." Dean said with a note of sarcasm.

"Cute. Jerk," Sam muttered.

"Bitch," Dean muttered back as he let the beam of his flashlight travel over the numbers on the first crate he came to, "Wrong one," Dean whispered over his shoulder.

Sam let a deep sigh slip passed his lips as he looked around, there was no way they could check over three hundred packing crates in under an hour. They were going to have to split up; there was just no other way around it.

"Dean, man, I think we need to separate. We can't do this fast enough if we stick together." Sam whispered.

Dean turned and studied his brother for a moment, trying to think of any other way to do this quickly but safely, "Sam, you can't do this on your own. Not with your shoulder like it is." Dean whispered back, "I mean, you can barely hold a gun much less take down a hell bent spirit. Think of something else, man."
As Dean talked he checked the next three crates, none of them were the one they were looking for.
/
Sam sighed and looked around, the spirit hadn't shown his ugly face for a while, it had Sam's skin crawling with anticipation for the shit storm that was about to hit.
Playing his flashlight around the room he caught sight of something on the second floor balcony, tapping his brother's shoulder he motioned to the almost black liquid staining the side of one of the crates.
"Looks like old blood." Sam whispered.

Dean cocked his head to the side, "Good call, Sammy." He whispered.

Dean began slipping around crates, making his way to the stairs. Wondering the whole way where that piece of shit spirit went.
He could see into that sick bastard's mind just as easily as it could see into Dean's. He saw what a terrible person Jonathon Blake really was. It made Dean sick to his stomach to have that kind of spirit inside of his skin. He wanted to scrub himself down with salt. He wanted-
He was so caught up in his thoughts that he never heard his little brother's warning and was thrown from the stair he stood on.
Landing in a heap at the foot of the stairs, he tried to catch his breath and shake the ringing from his ears. He knew his head was bleeding having cracked it on the floor when he landed, but was ignored it to peek up the stairs at his baby brother.

Having lost sight of his baby brother, Dean shook his head one finally time, finally making the stars release their grip on his eyesight, and stood up.
Pulling the .45 from his waistband, he knew it wasn't nearly as effective as the sawed off filled with rock salt, but he had to make due.
"Sammy?" Dean called out to the cold silence.

Hearing to response, he moved quickly, but with as much silence as a half conscious person could muster, and headed back up the stairs.
Every sick thing that the sick bastard could do to his baby brother was going through his mind, as he touched foot on the second floor balcony.
Swinging his gun in an arc, covering all of the dark shadows the son of a bitch could be hiding in, he moved, slowly, cautiously, to the crate that sat, not 20 feet from his current location.

"Sam!" Dean called again, his heart pounding in his ears, praying against hope that his brother was okay.

A slightly muffled groan came from his left, spurring Dean on.
Spinning around an old, rusty, crate he found his baby brother, strung by his arm with what looked like old wire biting into the flesh of his wrist.
Dean knew his shoulder had to be burning like acid, and his wrists wouldn't be fairing too much better after this was over, but put those thoughts aside as he tried to help his brother down.

With shaking hands Dean managed to get the wire unwrapped from Sam's unmoving wrists. The groan Dean heard must have been Sam's slip on consciousness because his brother wasn't responding.
Dean let his brother slide gently to the floor and propped him up against the wall.
Checking his pulse, Dean was comforted to find it strong.

Securing Sam, Dean made his way through the balcony to the edge where he knew the crate with Jonathon Blake's remains would be. Dean took each step carefully.
He checked behind each and every crate as he passed. It wasn't until he was two crates from his destination that he began to feel the cold that accompanied a pissed off spirit.
Spinning in all directions, he ignored the white puffs of air dancing in front of his face as he breathed, in search of his foe. He was more than ready to pump the bastard with rock salt.

"Come on you fugly son of a bitch!" Dean called out. Teasing the spirit was probably not the best idea in the world, but he needed to finish this bastard to get Sam out of here and somewhere he could patch up that gunshot wound.

"Dean, why don't you understand? I thought you of all people would understand." Jonathon Blake appeared in front of Dean, causing him to come to a stop or run into the spirit. Jonathon Blake's cold blue eyes sparkled with malevolence as he took a step toward Dean.
"Understand you? Dude, you are a sick son of a bitch that murdered the one person that should have been able to trust you to always protect them!"
"I did my job! I protected that little shit until I couldn't do it anymore! He was a sniveling little brat that didn't deserve to breathe! Dean, you know exactly what I am talking about! Little Sammy would piss big bad daddy hunter off and John would drink until he could barely stand, then he would take his anger out on you! Always you, and what did little Sammy do when he saw the bruises the next day? Nothing! He ignored them; pretended they didn't exist!"
Dean was already shaking his head, "I'm nothing like you! I wore those bruises with pride because I knew I took the pain so someone else didn't have to! That's just one of the many things that make us different!" Dean shouted. He felt the room grow colder. He knew he was pushing the limit but kept his eyes on the thing in front of him.

"We aren't that different, you and I." Jonathan said as he took another step toward Dean, smiling with satisfaction as Dean took another step back. Intimidating his pray, just like he did with Jeffery, "You will wake up one day and realize that everything you have done has been for a spoiled, selfish little prick that doesn't give two shits whether you live or die." Jonathan spat the last few words out.

"See, now, that's where you're wrong. My little brother would take, and did take, a bullet for me. He would do anything to protect me, because he knows I would do anything to protect him; which is probably why he was brave enough to begin the ritual of salting and burning your stinking corpse so that I don't have to hear your teenage girl bullshit anymore." Dean's eyes slipped passed the angry spirit, a mischievous smirk lighting his handsome face.
Jonathan turned around just in time to see the flames flare to life. Sam stood, more or less, with the can of lighter fluid still in his hand.

Jonathan turned back to Dean with a final scream of pure rage he burst into a blaze of fire before fading into nothing more than ash and dust floating to the ground at Dean's feet.

Meeting Sam's eyes Dean felt like a huge weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. All this time he had felt close to what Jonathan felt toward his brother and he was afraid that one day, push would come to shove and Dean would let greed and selfishness take over his tired heart and he would just walk away from Sam, from John. He was afraid he wouldn't be able to hold his place as Sam's protector anymore.
Today showed him, even with the strength of a vengeful spirit guiding him to walk away from all of his problems and obligations, he fought against it. He stepped forward as the shield Sam needed him to be.
He was strong enough.

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Sam flinched as Dean pressed the last piece of tape in place on his left shoulder. He knew his brother had something he wanted to talk about, but the trick with Dean was not to push. When he was ready he would open up, granted, someone could die from old age before Dean was ready, but Sam would wait.
"How is that?" Dean asked, "Not too tight, huh?"

Sam flexed his shoulder, sucking in a breath as pain blasted down his back and arm, "It's good, Dean." Sam sighed and pulled his blue flannel shirt back over his arm.

Dean busied himself with putting the medical supplies back in the med kit. He kept his eyes from straying to his brother. He would never admit that during the entire ‘possession' thing today, Dean could see everything. That he had to watch his own hand pull the trigger and shoot his baby brother. Felt the guilt and hopelessness when he watched his brother go down. He could practically taste the fear when he saw the blood on the crates as Jonathan searched for Sam. He wanted to vomit when he felt his hands physically grab Sam from the crate he had been hiding on and drag him to the ground.
When Sam finally pulled the salt from the bag, Dean had cheered like a dumb blonde in uniform for his brother.

When he woke up after Jonathon had been yanked free, it took his memory time to catch up, but now that everything was set back to right, he would have nightmares about that for everything that happened for the rest of his life.

As Sam lay back in bed, he opened the paper from a burger that Dean was forcing him to eat so he could take some pain medicine; Dean debated over what to tell him. He knew he wasn't off the hook about the stuff that Jonathan had stolen from Dean's mind and blurted out to Sam.

"You know, when you were about seven or eight, you told a cop that dad had guns hidden in our hotel room?" Dean said, smirking at the memory.

"Yeah, you walked up to a cop in the grocery store and told him everything. You, uh, you told him we hunted demons and monsters with the big guns that our dad kept in our hotel room."

Sam shook his head in wonder at his own stupidity, "And you didn't stomp my ass?" He asked.

Dean shook his head, smiling, "I thought it was funny as hell. I damn sure didn't think the cop would believe it." Dean's smile slowly faded, "but, uh, the cop tried to take us with him. I grabbed you by the hand and ran all the way back to the hotel. When we got there I told dad what happened and, uh, he packed us up and got us two the next town before the cop could get back to the station and report it."

Sam shook his head, "I bet dad was pissed."

Dean kept his eyes on his hands that were hanging between his legs, "He went out to a local bar, told me to keep an eye on you. He said he needed to vent." Dean shook his head, "Didn't work. When he got home he had lost about six hundred bucks in a poker game and he wasn't too thrilled." Dean cleared his throat before he went on, "He came looking for you. I knew he what he was going to do. I knew he was gonna be the shit out of you, and not even for the thing with the cop, but because he was just pissed and drunk. So, when he opened our door, I got out of bed and told him to leave you alone. He did just what I wanted him to do; he swung at me, and uh, didn't stop until he was too tired or just too drunk to lift his arm again." Dean wiped the secret tear from the corner of his eye and glanced at his brother.
He didn't really know what to expect to see there; guilt, sorrow, respect, certainly not the pure rage he saw building in those hazel eyes.

"Every day I learn something else that makes me happy that bastard is dead." Sam shook his head and threw the barely touched burger on the night stand before he stood up and paced around the room like a caged tiger, "Why would you do that, Dean? Why would give in and let him to do that? I don't give a shit what you say; nothing is worth willingly taking a beating like that. Not even me!"

Dean had no idea what to say, so many emotions went through him at once, anger, guilt, regret. All he wanted was to do what he had been told to do from the day Sam was placed in his arms and told to race from a burning house, how could Sam ask him to anything but that?

"Sam, I did it because you're brother. No matter what happens, I will always protect you. Even if it costs me my life, at least I know you will have yours." Dean shook his head, he wanted to say so much more, but that was all that he could get out.

Sam shook his head and wiped his hands down his face, "No, Dean. You never take a deal like that again. I can take responsibility for my own actions. I mean..." He huffed a sigh and paced back across the room before turning to his brother, tears stream down his face, "What kind of life would I have if you ever stopped one day and realized that you hated me for having to do that? What if-"

Dean finally stood up and pointed a finger at his baby brother, "You shut the hell up with that shit. Don't ever think I would walk away from you because of my choices. I have done my fair share of fucking up and you have stood by me. I am nothing like Jonathan Blake and I will never regret being your big brother. I look at you, and I see the man that you have turned out to be and I am proud because, in a way, I feel like I partly responsible for helping you become the man you are. I meant what I said, I wear these scars proudly because I know I am a selfish human being, but I wasn't when it came to you." Dean turned and walked back to his bed.

Sam stood in the middle of the room, eyes downcast. He didn't know what to say. He wanted Dean to know that he respected and loved his brother for the sacrifices made on his behalf, but couldn't find a way to say without insulting Dean.

Instead, he let it go, knowing Dean would see behind small talk what wasn't said, clearing his throat he asked, "Did you ever find out what really happened between Jonathan and Jeffery?" Sam asked.

Dean sighed and ran a hand threw his short spikey hair before nodding, "Yeah."

Sam reclaimed his seat on his bed before asking, "Well, what caused the fight that led to big brother slaughtering little brother?"

Dean winced at the words but shook his head, "Abusive father."

Sam nodded, "Abusive, alcoholic father show nepotism toward one child but hatred and disgust toward the other."

Dean nodded, "From what I could gather, Jonathan wasn't even his. The mom had a few boyfriends. Their dad found out, took his anger out on the bastard child that wasn't even his. Jeffery was his favorite, the one he took to the park, bought a car for, and paid for college. Jonathan hated Jeffery because of this. One day Jeffery asks Jonathan to join his law firm, Jonathan refuses because Jeffery tells him he is going to have to start at the bottom and work his way up. Jeffery told Jonathan that the reason he wasn't their dad's favorite was because he had no work ethic or drive, so Jonathan waited until Jeffery got home later that night and tied him his bed, tortured him, before slitting his throat, did the same to Jeffery's wife." Dean shook his head in disgust. He couldn't picture doing that to someone, let alone his own brother.

"You're right, you know?" Sam finally broke the silence.

Dean turned to his brother, "About what?"

"You're nothing like him. You're stronger, and I don't mean, just physically. I mean, you are stronger mentally. To take what you did for the protection of your brother. You're stronger, better."

Dean was speechless for a second. In a way he didn't really believe himself when he said it. He wasn't sure if he was stronger or better than the murderer, but hearing Sam say it, somehow made him believe it. He had done some horrible things, but, he knew his brother would always have his back and as he lay down to turn out the light, he knew that was all he needed.

Oh, gosh, I'm so sorry! I didn't realize, that's just how I had to copy and save it from my fanfic site where I had to story uploaded. I will remember that for future posts though! Thank you! And that you for reading it!

The first half of story was written on the day I came up with the idea, I have just recently finished the rest. You are very right in saying the last half sounded rushed as I don't have much time to write at the moment, but I wanted to finish it.
As for the typos, I am beyond bad about the "forgetting a word" that I am surprised people can read my stuff. The problem with it is that, when I proof read my stuff, I know what I was saying when I wrote it do my eyes overlook the missed words. I hate when I do it. But thank you so much for reading it and commenting!! I will go back over the original and make the second half less rushed and better paced. Thank you, so so very much for reading!!

It's well written and, well reading it, it really did seem like an episode of Supernatural... but the one thing that jumped out at me was Dean doing something with "a dancer's grace." If Dean were real and he read that, he would punch you.

Oh my God!! If you knew how many times I rethought that term you would shake your head. I seriously rethought that quote AT LEAST 50 times....but decided to stick with as a simple description, I regret it now! Hahahaha!!!